Never Get Tired of Zany Adventures
by Neeup and Greegrue
Summary: We all know what happens when you stand on Opassa Beach, and stare at the ocean...
1. I would have said a few choice words

Note from Greegrue: I decided that I have the most mundanely boring writing style one could ever hope to attain, that is, when I'm not writing humor. Any of you that had the misfortune of 'The Anomalous Moon' by my other penname might agree. That said, here's some satire.   


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** Never Get Tired of Zany Adventures **   
** By: Greegrue Steepaploe **

  


In the early gloaming, the ocean was a darker hue, and the sky was not yet bl-wait, no, _cerulean_, and the air was a bit crisper, as was habitual in the wee hours. A few birds were making raucous cries, as was also habitual, and a man-or a boy, depending on the definition of manhood-dearly wished them to shut up. 

Aforementioned soul-that is, the manchild-was staring, gazing,_viewing_ the majestic panorama before him, thankful the bothersome quidnunc known as Leena wasn't here; she was worse than the `gulls. Philosophic observation can only last so long when you're 17, and as if to emphasize that, something intervened. 

_Serge..._

Serge blinked. He followed this up with a low whistle and cuckoo noises. 

_Serge..._

An inward moan. Any cheeriness detracted from his earlier cinnamon-raison bagel vanished. 

_Serge..._

He mentally counted-three? It's usually no more than two.he was now thoroughly spooked. He whipped around nervously. 

_Se-_

The voice had stopped, as if its mistake had been forcefully thrown into its metaphorical stomach. Serge turned to face the ocean dutifully, and waited while the advancing wall of water engulfed him. He had eyes shut very tightly, so it stands to reason all he saw was blackness. 

  


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That's a pretty little prolouge. Now, I'm going to have to demand **1** review before my ego is bolstered enough to continue. 


	2. I've got rythmand the ability to flow, r...

Note from Greegrue: Much thanks to those that reviewed. It made the hour I spent trying to bugger around with HTML well worth it. Who would have thought you needed to open with the HTML tag? 

  


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Serge's eyes fluttered for a moment. Then, in a rush something akin to a dam bursting, he remembered. Standing on a beach thinking deep thoughts. The wave. Getting pulled in, veritably, a direction he didn't know existed. Again. 

And so he opened his eyes, rather than fluttering them like the wings of the nerve-trying seagulls. He was sitting on a comfortable easy chair in the middle of a black void, and in front of him sat a hovering, cross-legged Harle. As soon as she saw his eyes open, she began a chattering tirade that Serge couldn't listen to if he tried. Besides, his current position afforded him an ample view of, as he obtusely put it, the harlequin's goods. He was starting to feel wonderfully auspicious when a gloved hand struck his cheek. 

"Serge, mon ami, do not be perverted. I mean, merci, but I am telling you something of utmost importance," so said a slightly bemused Harle. Serge looked slightly dejected but averted his eyes and trained his ears. 

"Do you not wonder at _all_ why you're sitting in a floating recliner?" Harle again. Serge looked pensive for a moment, pretending to ponder the question, which was simply a guise-in truth, he was insanely curious as to when he'd be able to eat again. His stomach was growling like a dog. An angry dog. 

Harle grimly noted that Serge's train of thought was on a runaway. With something that could be a shrug, she snapped her fingers (which made the sound a snap makes when you're wearing gloves) and Serge passed out again, in the middle of wondering how salt got to be such a prized condiment. 

**~*+-=/_\^/_\=-+*~**   


Sand. In his mouth. A brief notion wavered over him, which was, of course, a wonderment-why couldn't sand be eaten? Chewing slowly, that question became one of the few to actually be answered. Serge dragged himself to his feet, swearing softly that he always had to fall face first. 

He looked at some fish in the ocean, which triggered something akin to an epiphany. He was a fisherman-now the author has another noun to call him by. 

The fisherman ambled out of Opassa Beach, a rather smug grin splayed over his countenance. 

**~*+-=/_\^/_\=-+*~**

_Note from Greegrue: I swear it has a plot. I just haven't thought of it yet._

** ~*+-=/_\^/_\=-+*~ **   


The fisherman poked on along to Arni Village-it seemed as good a destination as any-when an apparition suddenly appeared, right in front of him! Serge let out a small shriek and fumbled backwards. 

The ghost, the phantom, the _specter_ gazed at him with soulless eyes. He was a fairly normal looking specter-that is, it looked much like a person with a white sheet draped over their head-and when it spoke, it was that chillingly eerie echoic wailing. "Oooooooh, Serge. Yoooooou must have many questions regarding your presence." 

Well, Serge thought about that. He still remembered the final battle with the Time Devourer, still remembered the less-than-tearful goodbyes-'I'll find ya mate...'-but, truth be told, after an adventure like that, he was restless. So no, he didn't really care that he in this other world, and he sure didn't want an explanation. He trusted his serendipity, in the less tangible sense. 

The specter stared unmoving while Serge thought. After what seemed like-well, a long time-the fisherman spoke. "Nah...not really. Harle filled me in." It was a glib lie, the specter thought appraisingly. So he nodded and disappeared. 

Arni Village was, as is inveterate, quiet and peaceful. A few sea birds bellowed lazily in the fading afternoon sun, the gentle slapping of water on the dock, and the wind blowing through the native trees was all familiar ambience to the fisherman. He wished Radius was here, because old men are invaribly wise, and his 'servant' made good food. As it was, he walked to Leena's house to make his presence known. 

**~*+-=/_\^/_\=-+*~**   


That night, while sleeping, a huge hurricane struck Arni, without ryhme or reason. Serge managed to escape, though he was despondent over the loss of his pink socks. 

So it goes. 

  


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Note from Greegrue: That was really horrible, I know. In the next installment I plan for the story to lose all sanity, because that's always a lark. I've already gotten enough reviews to last a lifetime. That doesn't mean you shouldn't do it, though. 


	3. And so, the plot gets thinner

Note from Greegrue: Thankee once again, reviewers. I've decided to take this story on a pleasant little Sunday drive. Stupid metaphors aside, I have an idea for a plot, but it might not be apparent. In retrospect, I decided that my great page breaks made me want to throw soft drinks at my monitor, so you'll see a change in those too. And on with the story. 

  
~ 

  


Termina was baking under a hot-scorching-sun. Little heat waves danced off roof tops that could be likened to little gnomes waltzing about by candlelight. Or a bonfire. Lazy cats scowled at the hot cobblestone but were glad for the excuse to be lazy. Children stayed inside, unless they went swimming. Most all of Termina's youth were swimming with the exception of nerdy painters that fight with boomerangs. 

So, Serge the fisherman ambled into town. His comfort in regards to temperature had been quite enjoyable, until he stepped into the village-or sprawling metropolis, whichever was closer in terms of population. He did some experimenting that consisted of hopping from one foot to the other, under the gate that heralded a certain land radius the city of Termina. He did this for a while, for, while he wasn't a scientist, or researcher, he knew observations were absolutely _meaningless_ without repeated tests. Unbeknownst to Serge, the townsfolk weren't much for scientiftic theory. 

Especially Chad. 

Chad was, in all respects and everything the word entails, a bully. He didn't care who you were. He hated you. With a zealous passion. The Arbiter of Time was no exception. Driving this point home, then around the block again, Chad swaggered up to our heroic fisherman and shoved him-the victim of this unprovoked assualt was currently in the near-orgasmic state that can only be achieved by dedicated research. 

And so, Serge stumbled. His mind reeling, struggling to grasp the implications of gravity and kinetic energy, and the laws of motion, he straightened up, mindset returning to the norm. Whatever that esoteric norm might be. Now, world hero or no, Serge cut a laughable figure-especially when stacked up to the brawny Chad. 

Chad was staring at Serge with the most frightening look he could muster, disguising the fact he hadn't a clue what to do next. Not wanting to be aggressed further, the fisherman cooly-or not so-slid past Chad, whereupon the latter grunted and went to beat the snot out of Korcha. 

Feeling risbily lackadaisical, Serge stole up to the inn. Inside was-as one could immediately determine upon walking through the door, with the exception of Serge-an imbroglio. There was a fair portion of his past compatriots, namely the...uh. (Note from Greegrue: I can't remember for the life of me what the title of the dragoons is [Acaian? Acacacnogabroo? Ackmyposteriorisonfire?], but specifity be damned, I'm calling them the Scuttlebutt Dragoons until further notice. Thank you.) Throwing caution to the wind-where it floated freely upon the thermals-Serge yelled out a greeting-which was a cunning act of gaucherie, indeed. 

"Karsh! Riddel! Glenn! Zoah! Marcy! General Viper!" our hero exclaimed, eyes twinkling in boyish excitement. 6 sets of eyes shifted, and either their enthusiasm was waylayed, or it never even set off on the trail. It was everyone's favorite voluptuary who spoke first. A simple good afternoon, Serge. 

An epiphany of sorts-that is, a dawning realization that struck the tortured cranium of Serge so hard he stumbled-took that moment to arrive. For the first time, he noticed the manner of clothing both Glenn and Riddel were wearing-veritably little. Their countenance belied activity usually reserved for furtive osculation under big, leafy oak trees-and another epiphany dashed the halls of our heroes brain matter with several conventional arms. 

Serge got red in the face-sex was resolutely naughty, and generally 'Not Allowed' by his mother-and so, he quickly did a 180 and bolted out the door. And proceeded to jump in the salty, salty, ocean. 

~ 

  


Serge was utterly flabbergasted. He lay face down on a wooden dock-a fact he came to the conclusion of after sticking his tongue out and licking-and he was damp. Or sopping wet. Someone was crying a little ways away. Risely slowly to his feet, the fisherman recited a rhyme his mother taught him in case he ever lost his way. 

Show me the way,   
O winsome day,   
Not lead me astray,   
Which you've done today. 

Walking cautiously around, he ascertained his location was in Guldove-and the source of crying to be Doc. Either he felt Serge's presence, or just enjoyed hearing his own voice while choked with tears, he started to speak. 

Serge didn't stick around to find out-he had never liked the sissy doctor, anyway. 

Walking along, Serge never had a chance to dodge as three being collided into his bodily matter. Upon hearing the voice of a nasally duck and a retarded dog, Serge whispered in a sing-songy way the next verse of the ryhme. 

Come, show me the way,   
O malicious day,   
Not toss me away,   
Which you've done today. 

Note from Greegrue: I know, I know. Kingdom Hearts. I really hate Sora though, and this seemed like an opportunity I couldn't let slip by. And, sorry about the slow update-there's no excuse. I suck. 


End file.
